


somewhere between sorrow and bliss

by alltheworldsinmyhead



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon - Book, F/M, First Time, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Gendrya - Freeform, Now or Never Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Princess Arya, Sorry Not Sorry, angst with a not-quite-happy ending, blacksmith gendry, duh - Freeform, robb wins the war of five kings au, this whole plot is a lousy excuse to write canon gendrya porn which got out of my hands, together in winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:28:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheworldsinmyhead/pseuds/alltheworldsinmyhead
Summary: Arya doesn’t look away, even when her cheeks start to tingle from the hot blush spreading on her face. He surely must know how she feels about him, how she's always felt. He must know she wants it to be him and nobody else.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 125
Kudos: 273





	1. hands, fingers, lips

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence and The Machine ''Too Much is Never Enough'', which also truly inspired this fic. As always, all my love to wonderful Yana, who is motivating me like nobody else. Thank you, love <3
> 
> I mostly stuck to book canon, but there's nothing in this story that would make show watchers confused. Also, please don't overthink the fact that Robb is King in the North here, ''how''-s and ''why''-s are not super relevant to the plot. The only thing you need to know - Robb doesn't think with his dick and marries Roslin instead of Jeyne. But don't worry, my fellow shippers, Gendry's totally gonna be thinking with his dick here instead of him. 
> 
> And also, White Walkers are still asleep somewhere deep under the ice far away, dreaming sweet dreams of invading Westeros. In case anyone was wondering about them. 
> 
> Without further ado - please, enjoy <3

> Oh, who decides from where up high?
> 
> I couldn't say I need more time
> 
> Oh, grant that I can stay the night
> 
> Or one more day inside this life
> 
> Too much, too much, too much, too much, too much
> 
> Never enough
> 
> And who cares about the thing I did that night?
> 
> So what, maybe Luna had it right
> 
> And who cares if I'm coming back alive?
> 
> So what, 'least I have the strength to fight

Florence + The Machine

_*_

Wolfswood is never really quiet, not even in the dead of the night.

There are birds singing somewhere up on the branches, hidden from the view by thick greenery.

There are hares and foxes playing their games of hide-and-seek, constantly trying to outrun and outsmart one another.

There are winds howling and rivers humming.

There are moss and twigs and grass shifting underneath her paws as she’s running in-between trees, answering the calls of her little cousins. They are never too far behind, but keep their distance; she is the alpha of this pack, the biggest and the strongest and the most vicious. Only her brothers could possibly rival her, but they have their own hunting grounds now and rarely keep her company. She takes care of her wolves well, always making sure that their bellies are full and watching over the young, the old and the sick. Others respect her for that.

Maybe even love her, as much as a wolf can love.

What _Arya_ loves, is wearing Nymeria’s skin and running with her and her pack through the Northern forests. Her direwolf’s limbs are long and powerful, and it’s the warmest, most familiar feeling when they share a body. One mind, one soul; the smell of cold air and the sight of a full moon, heavy and pregnant on the dark sky. The taste of copper on the roof of their mouth, hot blood in their throat.

She always wakes up overheated from those wolf dreams, clammy with sweat. 

More often than not, she has her hand sandwiched in-between her thighs, trying to finish herself on the height on the hunt alone. It never works though; not until she, once again, closes her eyes and thinks about Gendry sleeping in the room above forge, so close and so far.

Gendry, with his good teeth, brilliant eyes, strong arms. Her friend, her companion. Her partner in almost everything under the sun.

How she wishes he could run with them too.

*

This morning, Bethany brings her a formal gown instead of usual tunic and leather breeches.

‘’Lady Catelyn insisted you wear it today, Arya.’’ She shots her an apologetic glance as she’s spreading the green material neatly on the bed. ‘’She also asked me to tell you to come to her solar directly after you break your fast.’’

Wordlessly, Arya nods and lets the maid’s skillful hands dress her up like a doll. Bethany does so with a worried expression on her face, but doesn’t try to pry – Arya guesses that’s what makes her such a good handmaiden in the first place, this uncanny ability to keep her curiosity in check. 

When Beth came to work in Winterfell with Roslyn’s party, she’s been a mousy girl of one and ten with skinny limbs and short brown hair, eerily alike to Arya

But time changed both of them and no one would take a look at them together now and say that they’re sisters… especially after Bethany puts a decorative mesh on Arya’s braided bun and ties a silver sash around her waist.

Because, against all expectations, Arya has grown into her long, serious face. Her scrawny frame has filled up. Gone is the boyish lass she used to be back on the King’s Road, gone without a trace. 

_Horseface no more. If only Jeyne Poole could see me now._

‘’All ready.’’ Beth chirps, her voice a little high-pitched as if she was trying too hard to sound cheerful.

When she finally lifts her eyes to the reflection in the mirror, Arya is not surprised to notice the quiet dread painted on her face. Her knees wobble a bit as she turns around with a swish of skirts and softly thanks Bethany for her help. She makes her way through the castle’s corridors alone, lost in thought; her legs taking her directly to Catelyn Stark’s rooms.

She’s not really hungry today.

*

_It was twilight when they finally arrived at the Twins._

_Arya was so tired that she was barely able to walk; Gendry kept his arms around her waist and let her lean on him, as they were making their way through the crowded, muddy camp set along the outer wall of the holdfast._

_He was also the one to desperately ask people around for directions to Lady Stark, hearing back only ridicule and sneers – and Arya wanted to help him, she really did, but she felt so drained out of life that she could hardly do anything more than keeping a standing position as soldiers circled them._

_And then, suddenly, silence fell, interrupted only by Gendry’s sharp inhale._

_Arya lifted her head at the sudden lack of noise, some small sound escaping from her lips when she took in the sight in front of her. The last time she saw him, he was still a puppy, but she would’ve recognized this stunning silvery fur everywhere._

_Grey Wind; regal, magnificent Grey Wind, was approaching them slowly on soft paws from in-between tents. Arya could feel Gendry’s body shivering against her. She told him about direwolves, about her Nymeria; but seeing the real thing, all bulky muscles and canines long as grown man’s fingers must’ve been a shock for him anyway._

_And yet, he stayed by her side, still holding her upright._

_She stretched out her hand, touching Grey Wind’s wet, cold nose and almost smiling at the collective gasp of gathered soldiers._

_‘’Hello.’’ She whispered. ‘’Hello again.’’_

_Happiness bloomed inside her chest, sharp and sudden, filling her to the brim. She laced the fingers of her left hand with Gendry and buried the fingers of her right one in the fur on the wolf’s neck._

_‘’Let’s go.’’ Came her command, and the crowd parted in front of the three of them as a field of wheat on the wind._

_*_

‘’We will be ready to set out to Riverlands in a few weeks’ time.’’ her mother says softly from behind her desk, her Tully blue eyes anxious. ‘’I thought that maybe you’d like to see your gown?’’

Arya just shakes her head. Inside her chest, a bubble of hysterical laughter forms, threatening to burst any second, so she prefers to keep her mouth shut.

‘’Sansa send a letter. She’s sad that she won’t be able to attend, but she wishes you all the best.’’

 _Sansa_. Sansa in Highgarden, having already fulfilling somebody else’s oath, having already played the part of the pawn on the board and winning the support of Tyrell forces for Robb with her pretty cunt. Sure she wishes Arya all best, no doubt about it.

‘’She embroidered a maiden cloak for you. It’s already waiting in the Twins.’’

Her sister has always been a master with a needle; when Arya recalls her from their childhood, all she can think about are Sansa’s long fingers dancing gracefully above and beneath embroidery hoop. They haven’t seen each other for five years now. Sansa’s a woman grown, with a husband and babe on her breast. _I bet she’s even more beautiful at eight and ten than she was at three and ten and not yet flowered._ _I wonder if she’s happy, now that she’s got everything she has ever wanted._

‘’Arya?’’

Catelyn Stark stares at her expectantly, waiting for a response to some question she didn’t hear.

‘’Pardon me, Mother. Could you repeat?’’

‘’I was just telling you to … say your goodbyes. I know that it will not be easy for you, to leave Winterfell. So I will not force you into anything, those last few days. Do what you need to do before you go.’’

Arya gapes at her mother in surprise. She expected to hear a lot of things; maybe a warning not to try to ruin anything, maybe some unwanted advice connected with her impending marriage bed. But this – this almost sounds like an apology.

‘’Thank you.’’ She manages to utter at last. In fact, she already has some plans on how to say goodbye.

Although she highly doubts it’s what her mother has in mind.

*

_‘’Can Gendry come with us to Winterfell?’’ Arya asked in a small voice, wrapped up in soft furs and sipping hot broth from the cup. She hadn’t been able to fall asleep, even as exhausted as she was, so her mother had stayed by her bed as if she was still a little babe._

_Truth to be told, she didn’t mind being a babe for this one night._

_‘’Of course, sweetheart.’’ Catelyn brushed some stray hair from Arya’s forehead. ‘’We owe him for taking care of you and bringing you to us. You said he was a blacksmith apprentice back in King’s Landing? I’m sure Mikken will appreciate the help.’’_

_Arya set an empty mug on the table next to the bed and yawned._

_‘’He told me that he met Father.’’ She leaned against the pillows and let her heavy eyelids drop. It felt so good to be laying in a featherbed, so warm and safe. It felt so good to be clean and full, to know that her mother was sitting next to her and watching over her._

_‘’Are you sure? How did it happen?’’ mother sounded stunned, disbelieving. But suddenly Arya felt too tired to explain anything._

_‘’M-hm. Father came to meet him. Asked him some questions about his parents. You should ask him about that in the morning.’’_

_‘’Of course, darling.’’_

_The bed was so warm. And she was so safe._

_‘’You promise he will come home with us? And we can still be friends?’’_

_‘’I promise you, he will always have a place in Winterfell.’’_

_Arya drifted into sweet sleep before she could notice that her mother never answered her second question._

_*_

For the rest of the day, she tries to avoid other people; she doesn’t go to the stables or the kitchens, doesn’t check on the new puppies in the kennel, even though she was so excited about them just yesterday. And, first and foremost, she keeps away from the forge.

It’s good that Robb’s away in the Last Hearth, because she highly doubts she would be able to look him in the eyes.

But there are still too many people in the Winterfell to completely isolate oneself.

On her way to the Godswood, she almost bumps into Roslyn and the kids; barely managing to kneel on the snow fast enough to catch running Elain in her arms.

‘’Hello, sweetling.’’ She smiles at the little girl giggling against the material of her fur cloak, kicking her legs as Arya picks her up. ‘’Be careful or you’ll topple someone over.’’

‘’I’m so sorry, Arya.’’ Roslyn blushes prettily and re-adjust baby Ned on her hip for better balance. Her belly has already begun to swell again, but it’s impossible to notice under all the heavy layers. Arya wonders briefly if it’s harder for her goodsister to carry children in such a climate, where a Southerner must be always careful not to catch a sickness on the harsh wind.

She herself will never have to worry about that in Riverlands. The air is nice and warm there, and the climate – mild, even in the middle of winter. Maybe that’s why House Frey is so freakishly big.

‘’That’s okay.’’ Arya whispers, her insides doing a somersault as Elain buries her face in the junction of her neck, nuzzling against her collar. She feels very warm in her arms and her pretty red hair smells like mint leaves that Roslyn tends to add to kids’ baths. ‘’No harm was done, we’re both intact.’’

‘’Still. She should not be running on those slippery paths.’’ Roslyn gently pats her daughter’s back. ‘’Honey, let go of aunt Arya, she goes to pray.’’

‘’No, I don’t wanna. I wanna go with her.’’ Comes the muffed response and Arya almost chuckles at the steel determination in Elain’s voice.

‘’Maybe some another time, Ellie.’’ She smoothly sets the little girl on her feet and untangles her arms from around her neck, grinning, when she spots unsatisfied pout of her little niece. ‘’Go with your mother to the castle. I’m sure Bertha has some honeyed cakes set aside for you.’’

Elain’s brown eyes light up at the mention of sweets and she spins on the ball of her feet and sprints down the path, yelling ‘’Goodbye, auntie Arya!’’ over her shoulder and completely ignoring Roslyn’s pleas to _by the Seven, slow down, Elain!_

Even after they’re gone, Arya stays still for a heartbeat or two, breathing the icy Northern air that makes her lungs hurt and her lips tingle. She wonders if she’ll get to meet the new babe before it's grown; if the next time she sees Elain, the little beauty will already be betrothed to one of Robb’s bannermen. Somehow, she doesn’t believe Elmar will let her visit North awfully often.

_How is that fair – after all, I did to get back home, now I have to leave it behind?_

She swallows the anger for the thousandth time and her throat burns, the taste of acid strong on her tongue.

She was angry when she found out, of course, she was.

And time only sharpened this anger, weaponized it; making the edges all smooth and thin, so that it could cut her at any given second, stealing her breath away. It always happens - this second of breathlessness, right before the pain comes.

But if nothing else, she learned to live with the pain, with the clock ticking at the back of her mind and the executioner’s blade hanging above her head. So she pulls the cloak tighter around her frame and continues her walk as if nothing happened at all.

In Godswood, she comes straight to the heart tree, pressing her hand flat against the bark. It’s been a while since she prayed and she’s not sure she wants to pray now. But there is something strangely comforting about touching this tree and being close to it. The hustle and bustle of the castle seem very distant here; it’s almost like there’s only Arya and her thoughts, and nobody else.

The air she exhales turns into small clouds of fog. She’ll miss it, in the Riverlands. She’ll miss the frost biting her cheeks and the snowfall. She’ll miss the calm serenity of the Godswood.

She’ll miss- she’ll miss so much.

Closing her eyes and resting her forehead against the heart tree, against all hope and logic, Arya Starks silently prays for salvation.

*

Before she leaves her chamber at night, she unties the ribbon from her long braid, letting the hair fall down her body loosely like a waterfall.

The time when Yoren hacked them off was the last time they were cut; now, they’re even longer than Mother’s, thicker and darker than they were when she was a kid. Sometimes, oldest servants touch them when she passes them by and whisper:

_Lyanna, Lyanna, Lyanna._

She has always wondered if maybe her aunt just didn’t want to marry Robert Baratheon and willingly run away with Rheagar. _If so, the kingdom bled for her selfishness. Still.. maybe I would also do as her, if my lover was a prince._

But her lover is not a prince, although maybe, in some another version of their story, he would be. In that kind of world, everything would surely look so much different between them. Maybe she wouldn’t need to sneak out at night to meet him and maybe he would be the one she’s supposed to marry.

Certainly, they would not meet as two terrified, hungry children on the road, hunted like a pair of hares.

Right here and right now, she closes the chamber door behind her, disappearing in the dark of the night like a thief.

*

‘’Gendry?’’

‘’Arya? What in seven hells are you doing here?’’

There is only one candle lit in his room, but the moonlight spills from the window and allows her to see the surprised arch of his brows when she crosses the room and sits on the bed next to him.

He inhales sharply when he notices her appearance; her loose hair, bare feet. White nightgown that’s nearly translucent in such lightening. He must be able to see every line of her body, the swells of her breasts perfectly.

She does not allow him to say anything more.

‘’Mother is sending me to Twins before the next moon’s turn.’’ – spills out from her lips mercilessly. She has spent the whole day wondering how to tell him this, how to make it gentle, and she came out empty-handed.

Besides. She owes him bare truth. She owes him at least this, given what she’s about to ask him for.

‘’Whether I like it or not, it is my duty to marry Elmar.’’ She laces her fingers on her lap, trying to keep her voice calm and even. ‘’My duty towards North. And we knew it would happen eventually.’’

‘’Fuck the North.’’ Gendry snarls, reaching out to take her hand in his; her skin stings in places which he’s touching and his grip is a little too strong, almost bruising. ‘’I told you that a million times- you don’t owe them a thing. They’re selling you away like a broodmare. What does it matter now, if you marry him or not? There’s no war anymore. And this _lord_ Frey, he doesn’t mean shit.’’

He’s right, in a way. North remains an independent kingdom and her brother is a king. Daenerys Targaryen rules Six Kingdoms with her dragons and her alleged nephew by her side, and she does not take kindly to women being forced into agreements they did not consent to.

And yet.

‘’They made a deal, Gendry.’’ She sounds awfully small and she knows he can hear it, because he squeezes her hand even stronger as she speaks. ‘’It would bring dishonor to our name, if we were to break it.’’

‘’Yes, they made a deal. ‘’ suddenly, his fingers are on her chin, angling her face towards his slightly. His own is dark from anger, such deep and heated that she forgets how to breathe. ‘’But it’s not your deal.’’

‘’I’m a Stark. My brother’s deal is my deal.’’

‘’Arya-‘’

‘’Listen.’’ Her hand shots out before she can stop it and rests on his mouth, her palm pressed to his lips and silencing him. For a second or two, neither of them speaks; Gendry’s brow raises in surprise and Arya tries to calm down the wild heart trashing in her chest before she speaks again.

His stubble is coarse, prickling her skin, but gods, he is so warm. Gendry’s always warm, even in the middle of icy rains and violent storms, even in the middle of the night. Even when he’s complaining about the cold. He is the fire near which she’s basking, soaking up the heat and constantly forgetting that she can burn herself.

Not that it matters now.

‘’Listen.’’ She takes a deep breath and starts again; the words are streaming out of her mouth quickly like a river current. ‘’I won’t change my mind. Elmar Frey will get a wife, just like he was promised. He won’t get a _maiden_ wife though. That was never a part of the deal, not explicitly.’’

She suspects nobody even thought about setting this kind of condition. A noble, trueborn princess for sure must be a maiden, right? No need to put it down in writing. Freys did not consider this. Her mother did not consider this.

Only Arya considered this, as her flower bloomed red on the sheets for the first time.

She’s always been good at finding loopholes.

‘’I want this to be my choice.’’ She says, lowering her hand and staring boldly straight into his eyes. ‘’I did not choose to marry him. But he won’t have my maidenhead, I refuse to give it to him. Besides, everyone knows I’m a good horse-rider, no one will question the lack of blood.’’

Gendry blinks, once, twice. He’s so still and so quiet, frozen half-breath. And it’s almost funny, in a way, because she has seen him happy and sad, angry and giddy, scared and tired, and with his guards both up and down, but she doesn’t think she has ever seen him like that, like in this very moment.

Arya doesn’t look away, even when her cheeks start to tingle from the hot blush spreading on her face. _You must know how I feel about you, how I’ve always felt. You must know I want it to be you._

But maybe he doesn’t because he’s still staring at her, wide-eyed, until annoyance overpowers whatever embarrassment she’s feeling.

‘’Gods, you’re so stupid.’’ She huffs in impatience and, before he can protest in any way, she places both her hands on his shoulders and swings her leg over his thighs to settle on his lap. Like this, she can feel how tense his body is; how a slight tremble runs through it, when she laces her fingers on the nape of his neck and her cold fingertips brush his overheated skin.

He has such pretty eyes. Pretty powerful, too. He looks at her silently and she almost feels this stare on her skin, on her body; the sheer intensity of it.

‘’I need it to be you.’’ There it is, she said it. _No turning back now, Stark_. ‘’I have never wanted anyone else but you. If I must marry another, I want at least this one night to remember for the rest of my life.’’

‘’If – If you’ll have me.’’ She adds at last, her voice wavering slightly. They are to part anyway, so if he refuses her now she won’t have to avoid him for long, but this waiting for an answer is still unsettling beyond measure.

The fire in his eyes doesn’t die down, but the anger evaporates somehow, replaced by an emotion she does not recognize.

‘’Arya.’’ He sighs gently, and it sounds like a prayer, like a song; he raises his hands slowly and settles them on her hips, curling his fingers possessively. Something strange and powerful awakens inside her, unease twisting deep in her lower belly. ‘ _’If_ I’ll have you? My Arya, what are you even talking about? ’’

_My. My Arya._

His head dips until his forehead rests on hers and she has never, in her entire life, felt like this before. It’s almost like her body is not hers anymore, with how little control she suddenly has over it. The only thing she can think about is Gendry, Gendry holding her in his arms, the tip of his nose brushing hers and the distance between their lips so painfully short. They haven’t been this close ever since they came to Winterfell together.

‘’I can’t dishonor you like that.’’ He says, but his actions contradict his words and they both know it; because how can he try to push her away, when his hands are pulling her closer, pressing her to his chest and forcing her to spread her legs wider?

She’s not wearing any smallclothes, just a thin shift for a nightgown and he must already feel the wetness coating her inner thighs, pouring out of her.

His voice is low and his eyes are hooded and she briefly wonders how long he has been fighting his own desires when it comes to her. How many time did they waste on dancing around each other for one reason or another.

‘’I cannot fuck you, Arya. Don’t ask this of me.’’

Her breath quickens when his hand moves higher, covering the small of her back.

‘’Stop this honor horseshit. I’m not asking you to fuck me, Gendry.’’ She pants, letting her impatient fingers tangle in the shaggy hair at the back of his head and tug on them delicately. ‘’Don’t you remember this song that Tom Sevenstrings used to sing?’’

‘’ _And how she laughed, the maiden of the tree. No featherbed for me._ Something like this, right?’’ He hums, mirth sparkling in his eyes _. Oh, we were happy then, far happier than we realized_. 

‘ _’You can be my forest love and I, your forest, lass_.’’ Trembling like a leaf on a wind, she tits her head slightly and brushes her lips against the corner of his mouth. ‘’If you cannot fuck me, make love to me.’’ 

He groans quietly and chills run down her spine at the sound. She wonders what else she can make him say, make him do.

‘’Lay me down.‘’ she whispers into his ear, tightening her grip on his hair. ‘’Lay me down and have your way with me. Please.’’

***

_When he met lady Catelyn Stark for the first time, he could hardly believe she was really Arya’s mom._

_They looked nothing alike, not even the slightest. He couldn’t find a single characteristic they shared – instead, they made quite a study of contrasts. Long, red braid and uneven, dark strands. Bundled in rich furs and clad in muddied rags. Tall as willow and slight like a cattail._

_But when lady Catelyn wrapped her arms around Arya’s frame, both of them weeping tears of joy with the same desperation and the same passion, Gendry’s heart clenched painfully at the sight – half from happiness and half from nostalgia._

_Her brother, the terrifying Young Wolf with the crown of longswords was also teary-eyed; shaking Gendry’s hand for good ten minutes or so, murmuring a never-ending string of_ thank you _-s and deaf to Gendry’s protests. And Gendry felt like a true idiot, blushing like a maiden in his own muddied rags. It was all very stupid. It’s not like he needed any awards for bringing Arry to her family._

_She was his friend. His – his family, or the thing closest to it. He did it for her and he would do it for her again. Hell, if she had asked him to bring her to her brother in the Night’s Watch, he would have probably done that too._

_For seeing her like this, with her eyes sparkling happily and soft, joyous giggle spilling from her mouth was the best reward he could ever ask for. He never wanted more than for Arya to be happy and to be allowed to stay by her side._

_He thought she would be safe from then on, that her brother and mother would take care of her._

_They don’t._

*

Somewhere, at the back of his head, there are alarm bells ringing loudly. The Starks knighted him, took him with them to Winterfell. Gave him a sword and a forge, gave him a household where he could belong. A place of honor at their table. And he makes it up to them by laying his unworthy hands on the noble-born princess he has no claim to.

But the bells seem fainter and fainter with every passing second because all of this means nothing, nothing at all when Starks are also the ones who are sending Arya away from him, marrying her off to some man who doesn’t deserve to kiss her feet. 

And besides, he does not give a shit for King Robb’s or Lady Catelyn’s wishes. He only cares for Arya’s wishes, and Arya… Arya wants _him._

Nothing is like he imagined.

Arya’s soft and warm on his lap, pliant; she gasps in surprise when he kisses her and opens her mouth eagerly at the touch of his tongue. Everything between them so far has always been a fight, back-and-forth, bickering for hours with no end and no definite winner. But this- this does not feel like a fight, not at all.

It feels _right._

It feels natural as breathing and easy, so easy. Their lips move in perfect tandem. Their noses brush. Her nails lightly scratch his scalp when she buries her hands in his hair. He hikes up the flimsy material of her nightgown, lowering his head to kiss along the column of his neck when his hands glide across her skin. The muscles she formed while horse riding shift underneath his palm when she pushes her hips forward, rubbing her bare cunt directly against his cock and he almost chokes on his own tongue at the sensation. 

How many days did he waste dreaming about having her like this, how many nights? Thousands upon thousands, more than he can count.

He nudges white cotton collar aside and nuzzles against the hollow of her throat.

Arya smells just the way she always does; like frost and wolf pelts, like wood and pine. Like a wild thing. For sure, they will perfume her for the wedding, mark her with the scent of rose and sandalwood, as if she was every other highborn lady. They will strip her of everything she is, take away everything he loves about her and force her to pretend she’s fine with it.

His kisses turn rough at this thought, all teeth and tongue, and Arya gasps in surprise when he sucks on the tender skin in the junction of her neck. The blood runs shallow here, so shallow that he can feel it pulsating. She reaches down and runs her nails along the line of his spine harshly, slashing the skin even through the material of his shirt.

It’s too much, too much; and suddenly, not enough, when she slips her hands in between them and grips the hem of her nightgown. With the boldness that takes his breath away, she raises it up and pulls it over her head in one swift movement. The white material slips from her fingers to the stone floor and for a second, she stays still; chest heaving and curls messy, blush coloring her pink from her cheeks to the peaks of her breasts. Bare as a newborn babe against him.

Too much, too much, not enough; all this pale, perfect skin messes up with his head and he does not know _how_ and _when_ as his hands lock around her waist and he pushes her flat on her back on the bed to hover above her. Arya laughs lightly, breathlessly; some straw is peaking from in-between the seams of the mattress behind her head and she pulls it out, twirling it in between her fingers.

‘ _’No featherbed for me._ ’’ She hums with a smile on her face and, before he can apologize, she reaches up and cups his cheek with her free hand. ‘’You can touch me, Gendry. I want you to.’’

And so he does.

He leans down to kiss her senseless while his hands explore; his fingers dance on her ribcage, on the underside of her breasts. He memorizes what she likes, how she tenses and sighs as he caresses and squeezes and tweaks. When he replaces his hands with his mouth on her nipples, she lets out a whine that would sound pained, if not for how her back arches.

It almost feels like a dream, the ones that would come to him whenever he stumbled into bed drunk on too much ale and the sight of Arya twirling in the Great Hall with one of her brothers. She’s sparkling on those feasts too brightly for him to keep his eyes away, all effortless grace, loud laughter and swishing skirts.

He spreads her legs wide open until he can see all of her; a tuft of brown curls, darker than those on her head, her sex; pink and purple and wet with arousal, silky to touch. His balls tighten painfully at the sight, breath catching as he takes her in.

She makes a move to press her thighs together, but he doesn’t let her.

‘’No, Arry, stop.’’ He whispers, his lips stiff; he pecks her hipbone and she yelps, air escaping from her clenched jaw with a hiss. ‘’Gods, you’re so fucking pretty.’’

And before she has a chance to say anything, he presses his tongue flat in-between her petal-like folds in one long lick, from her opening to the bundle of nerves near the top of her slit, tip swirling around it.

‘’You’re driving me insane.’’ One kiss on the inside of her trembling thigh and back to her cunt, to the taste of her, the smell of her. ‘’All those breeches you’re wearing on this ass of yours, you crazy woman. Your mother should put Septa’s robes on you.’’

‘’Gendry.’’ She laughs breathlessly and he smiles at the sound. ‘’Stop it.’’

‘’Stop what? Telling you the truth?’’ his finger slides into her easily, but his brain almost spills out of his ears at how tight she is, even as wet and as eager. He kisses this sweet spot again, massaging her inner walls gently as she reaches down to tug on his hair.

‘’Gendry.’’ His name sounds like a melody on her lips when she sighs it like that, like a song. She tastes sweeter than honeyed wine that they served at the feast marking King Robb’s victory. He has never wanted to get drunk more than now.

‘’What do you want, love?’’ he crawls up to kiss her on the lips, swallowing her moans against his mouth. _What do you want, what do you need, just tell me; I’ll give you everything, everything._

‘’I – I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.’’ she admits bashfully at last, her ears a little red from embarrassment and her nose scrunched.

He just laughs at that, because what else he can do? This must be the first time in her life when Arya Starks utters such words.

‘’It’s alright. I’ll show you.’’

He buries two fingers knuckles deep in her and watches in awe as her eyes roll back.

‘’Ah.’’ She sighs. ‘’Ah, please.’’

‘’Let me know what you like, m’lady.’’ The old moniker rolls off his tongue with surprising ease and he chuckles, when her hips thrust forward the second he utters it. ‘’I suppose you enjoy it after all, don’t you.’’

‘’You’re - so stupid.’’ Arya glares at him, which would probably have a stronger effect if she wasn’t so prettily blushed and if she didn’t clench around his fingers the way he does when he works her slowly, pumping in and out. ‘’I can’t believe you.’’

‘’Hmm, why are so you wet for me, then? If I’m so stupid?’’

Her hands fly to her breasts and she throws her head back on the mattress, whatever clever line she had ready lost in desperate pants as he licks her again and adds yet another finger.

He’s getting pretty desperate himself, truth to be told. As much as he wants to make it good for her, as much as he enjoys teasing her and watching her squirm – this is the woman he loves, bare in his bed, legs wide open. There’s only so much he can take before he cums in his smallclothes like a green lad who has never had a woman.

Somehow, it feels like that with Arya. Whatever fun he had with a serving girl or two after a merry feast pales in comparison to what he’s feeling right now. He supposes it makes sense – because it’s _Arya_ , and she’s everything but ordinary and because she means so much to him, and because it’s her first time-

And because she’s leaving him, never to return.

‘’Arya, Arya, Arya.’’ He whispers her name, peppering her face, her neck, her chest with kisses; her eyelids flutter and fall down, and her lips part as she moans. She ruins him in her arousal, rips him apart. For no other woman will be ever enough after this and he knows it painfully well. ‘’My love, my lovely.’’

One of her hands on her breasts, fingers twisting her nipple the way he did earlier; another on his forearms, nails digging into his skin deliciously.

Her thighs tremble and her back arches, her body turning into a drawn bow –

And Arya comes with his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He watches her, transfixed and still; when he slowly withdraws his fingers from her, she sighs and opens her eyes to look at him, her lips curving into a blissful smile.

‘’You’ve got too many clothes on.’’ She observes, sounding a little weak. ‘’I don’t think it’s very fair.’’

‘’Sorry, got impatient.’’ Gendry dips his head to kiss her cheek, grinning when she giggles. ‘’Let me fix it.’’

He pulls away from her to strip, but she makes it infinitely harder by saying:

‘’Should’ve known you’d be good with your hands.’’

Of course, hearing that, Gendry demonstrates his perfect manual skills by getting so flustered that he cannot, for all seven hells, manage to untangle the laces of his breeches, no matter how hard he tries.

‘’You’re a menace, Stark.’’

‘’I’m just complimenting you. Don’t you like it?’’ she asks _oh so_ innocently, propping herself up on her elbows and laughing at his fumbling. ‘’Or maybe you like it too much?’’

Gendry does not dignify her with an answer, but his trembling hands seem to be a good enough response to her, because he feels her shifting on the bed and suddenly, she’s right behind him, her warm body pressed to his back. She sneaks her arms under his and undoes the laces easily, kissing along the line of his right shoulder.

‘’I am also impatient, you see.’’ She whispers into his ear and then bites on it delicately. A tiny part of his brain that’s still capable of thinking wonders how the fuck she seems to excel in this. Arya has always been a ridiculously fast learner. ‘’Because you’re so good to me.’’

Her hands slide slowly down his stomach, making him growl lowly. 

‘’Let me be good to you.’’

He gets lost in all those sensations; in her fingers closing around his length, unsure at first and then rising in confidence with every curse that slips from in-between his lips; in the slide of her breasts up and down his back as she shifts; at her kisses and laughter, and quickening breath.

She undoes him so easily without even trying. Up and down, she pumps his cock with her small, warm hand, to the point where pleasure obscures his vision and the room almost turns pitch-black in front of his eyes.

He grabs her wrist, stopping her hand half-motion.

‘’No, Arry, or it will be all over sooner than either of us wants.’’

Maybe later, maybe in the morning. But not now.

When he turns around, his eyes meet her grey stare, surprisingly serious; there’s not a trace of light-hearted humor gleaming in them, as if the last remains of her high disappeared and the gravity of the situation settled on her shoulders. She nods slowly, gently cupping his face and there is such a deep longing painted on her face that he has the sudden urge to smash something into pieces from anger.

_My love._

‘’We don’t have to do anything more, Arya. Just say a word.’’ He brushes her hair from her shoulders and she rolls her eyes with a huff of annoyance.

‘’Gods, Gendry. It’s like you’re forcing me to be lewd.’’

She kisses him, hard; nips on his lower lip insistently until they’re both panting heavily, until all the blood in his body rushes south. Arya loops her arms around his neck loosely and pulls away slightly, looking so deliciously well-kissed that his head spins. She rolls her hips slowly, making him curse under his breath when his cock rubs against her belly.

‘’How many times – will you make me - say it? You stubborn bull.’’ she asks, lightly scratching his nape, still pressing against him. ‘’I want you inside me. I want you so much that I don’t know how to handle it. Gendry, _please._ ’’

And he wonders, quietly and deeply, how did he deserve this. How did he earn having this woman whom he knows so well and loves so fully, begging for him.

If he fucks her now, letting go of her will tear him in half. Maybe he is really as stupid as Arya claims, because he suddenly realizes that he does not care about it, not even at all.

‘’Turn around’’ he whispers, and she obliges easily, kneeling with his back to him.

He puts a hand in-between her shoulder blades , pushing her down, and she trembles.

_If you cannot fuck me, make love to me._

When he has her on her knees and elbows, bent sinfully, Gendry replaces his hand with his mouth; first kissing down the line of her spine and then raising his head to press a peck on the nape of her neck. He’s happy he cannot see her face, cannot see her eyes. He doubts he would be brave enough to do what he’s about to do if she was facing him.

‘’I love you.’’ He says, loud and clear.

And pushes into her.

_Seven fucking heavens._

Arya gasps , her head falling down and muscles shifting on her back as she tenses. He puts one hand on the mattress for a better balance and reaches in-between her legs with another one, blindly searching for the spot she liked so much earlier.

‘’Loosen up, love.’’ He coos to her, staying still and tracing tight circles around the small bundle of nerves until her inner walls unclench a bit and she raises on her elbows again, all trembling. ‘’That’s right.’’

His hips slowly slide forward experimentally and sweet bliss floods his brain when she pushes back against him, swaying on her knees.

‘’Oh, Gendry.’’ She hums softly, her voice strange and foreign. ‘’I love you too.’’

He once though there’s nothing better than hammering the metal and molding it into a shape, hearing it sing. He was wrong, so, so wrong.

Because it does not even compare to having Arya singling like a songbird, howling like a wolf when he thrusts into her; he draws hymns and prayers and curses from her trembling lips, mercilessly and with abandon. In her and above her and all around her, no escaping. Nothing has ever felt as good as this. Nothing could possibly feel as good as this.

He learns her, memorizes her with his hands and mouth and cock; her valleys and flats, every dip and curve and line.

All of it, all what he’s feeling… it’s not just because she’s a beautiful woman; although she is, she is so lovely that it kills him inside when he spots her dancing with a sword in the courtyard, her braid spinning as she moves in circles. More lovely than anyone would’ve thought when she was a little girl pretending to be a boy and he challenged her to take out her cock and prove her words. She has the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen and those delicate bird bones which can easily fool someone into thinking her weak. Lovely pale skin. Freckles scattered across her cheekbones.

And a horsewoman’s ass that could turn the holiest Septon into a sinner.

But Arya’s so much more than her body, so much more than her title. She’s bright and quick-witted and funny; she’s loyal and honest and true. And she has a gentle heart for those less fortunate than she and Gendry knows for a fact that there was never a single moment in her life when she thought herself above anyone lowborn.

There are no other women like her. He does not need to visit all the kingdoms in the bloody Westeros to be sure of that.

 _He won’t love you like you deserve to be loved. –_ he thinks desperately as her low moans echo in his ears. Her skin is all slick with sweat and his hands slide against it when he grips her hips harder, quickening the pace. _No one will ever love you like I love you. I could make you so happy._

He doesn’t realize that he uttered it aloud until Arya throws her head back and lets out a howl of joyless laughter.

‘’Oh yes, you would, Gendry.’’

Suddenly, he wants nothing else than to see her face. When he pulls her up to a kneel and grabs her waist to keep her steady, she murmurs something under her breath, too quietly for him to hear.

‘’Look at me, love.’’ He commands her and, to his surprise, she raises her chin obediently, resting the back of her head against his sternum. She has her eyes half-opened, hazy; grey almost swallowed by black of arousal. Her fingers latch to his forearms for balance and her thighs tremble, but Gendry should probably thank Arya’s love for riding for the fact that she remains up at all, withstanding his brutal pace.

‘’You would make me happy.’’ She cries, sounding as if she just realized that herself. Her eyelids drop. ‘’You really would.’’

One of his hands cup her breast to toy with her nipple, and, truth to be told, he knows he’s being too rough now, too harsh on her. But no matter how much he tries to pleasure her, there’s sadness in all this that it’s impossible to get rid of, and he does not know how to deal with that.

‘’I would.’’ He repeats and it sounds a little bit like a promise and a little bit like a curse too.

He pinches the bud, hard. Arya’s head whips down and back up, bumping against his chest; she starts to pant earnestly, quickening the movement of her hips as she’s chasing the peak.

And Gendry’s close too. Way too close, actually, and getting closer with every wet slap of their bodies. So he somehow forces himself to slow down, lowering Arya back on the mattress and planning to pull out as soon as-

‘’No.’’ she protests suddenly, pushing her ass against him and clenching around his length so deliciously that his eyes water. ‘’No, I need you to come inside me.’’

‘’Arya!’’

It’s foolish, beyond foolish; gods, it’s lunacy, but heaven must surely feel exactly like this, like Arya and her tits and her eyes; her sighs and moans; her warm cunt and the line of her spine. 

Before he can do anything to stop it, a vision blooms in his mind, poisonous like pennyroyal.

Arya, in Elmar Frey’s bed, naked and still underneath him, her face blank.

Arya with a child, full and round, beautiful beyond measure.

Arya, far away in Riverlands, bearing a babe black of hair and blue of eyes. Hers and his and _theirs_.

And he almost fucking _cries._

‘’Ary-‘’

‘’Let me have this.’’ She glances at him over her shoulder, eyes wide and pleading, and such intense desperation in her voice that it feels like a slap. ‘’Please, Gendry, let me have this.’’

It’s lunacy and it’s something that he swore to himself he would never do. They will surely geld him and send her to the Sept for this.

But he was never good at refusing Arya.

Even when it just may kill him inside a little - spilling inside her with a long moan and the white bliss of release not thick enough to stop him from imagining another man doing the same exact thing.

Arya’s all quiet and still when he pulls out of her and lays down by her side. She rolls on her back and stares at the ceiling silently, not meeting his eyes even when his fingers lace with hers.

‘’I’m sorry.’’ She whispers at last. Her pale body glows in the moonlight, his seed glistening on her thighs when she shifts on the mattress closer to him. ‘’You did not deserve this.’’

And maybe it’s because he just fucked her, or maybe it’s because she said she loved him, or maybe it’s just the whole years full of emotions which he never let himself feel – but sharp pain twists his insides at the sight of Arya’s wet, gray eyes and he finally understands, truly and well, what he has gotten himself into.

He pulls her closer, little trembles of hypersensitivity running through her body when he caresses her side and kisses her forehead.

‘’You don’t deserve it either.’’

***

_Kings were dying like flies, dragons and Dothraki horde crossed the sea and the high and mighty played their game of thrones, but Gendry did not participate in any of this, nor he cared about not participating._

_King Robb sent them to Winterfell as soon as possible, under the protection of his friend; the young lord from Iron Islands who treated Arya as if she was his own annoying little sister and cared for not much more than whoring around and constantly hurrying them so that he could come back to Robb as soon as possible. Robb’s new lady wife accompanied them, shy and sweet like a freshly bloomed flower, but Lady Catelyn had decided to stay in the war camp._

_For that, Gendry was grateful. He did not like the way the woman seemed to be constantly surveying him, especially after he told her about meeting her husband prior to his death. Arya had told him that her mother had a certain opinion about bastards and that definitely seemed to be true._

_It almost felt like old time, being on a road with Arya. Except now they weren’t starving, or huddling together during the night for warmth. Arya would sleep with lady Roslyn and Gendry buried himself in the hay for horses on the supply wagon, lacing his hand behind his head and watching the stars. The further north they went, the brighter they seemed._

_One week away from Winterfell, golden-eyed direwolf sprinted out of the thick woods and casually joined their party, sending horses into a full-blown panic and bringing Arya to tears._

_And since then, Gendry had a new, warm companion on the car. Because contrary to her mistress, Nymeria could and would curl by his side, nuzzling her enormous head against his thigh until he scratched her behind the ears. He felt better with her sleeping next to him; sometimes, she would snore slightly in her slumber, just the way Arry did._

_His heart was light like a feather. They were going North, Arry and him._

_She was going to share his home with him and, against all logic and hard truths, Gendry couldn’t help but let the quiet hope in. Maybe Arya truly had been right; maybe North would be an entirely different world altogether._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... how did you like it? How do you think this story will end? I CANNOT WAIT to hear your thoughts in the comments, I'm so excited to read them! Please, humor me and let me know your opinion - even a few words of encouragement truly mean a word to me.


	2. fists, nails, teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: a secret wedding and a waterfall of angst

> Please could you be tender 
> 
> and I will sit close to you
> 
> Let's give it a minute before we admit that we're through
> 
> Guess this is the winter
> 
> Our bodies are young and blue
> 
> Hard feelings
> 
> These are what they call hard feelings of love
> 
> When the sweet words and fevers all leave us
> 
> right here in the cold
> 
> Lorde

*

_‘’I’m not marrying him!’’ she screamed at the top of her lungs, angry blush stinging her cheeks. ‘’You cannot force me!’’_

_‘’Arya, please.’’ Robb sounded tired. He always sounded tired lately, weary like an old man and hunched over papers in his solar for whole days. ‘’Please, stop it. We’ve been through it a million times already.’’_

_She just shook her head._

_‘’No.’’ a single tear dropped from her eyes and she wiped away furiously. She was not a child anymore; she was a woman now. Flowered._

_About to be sold away, sent away like a fucking cargo._

_‘How could you do it to me? I don’t want to-‘’_

_‘’Look, do you think I wanted any of this?’’ Robb’s voice pierced the air like an arrow as his patience ran out and he rose from his seat to his full height, immediately towering above her. ‘’The crown, the war? Ro – Roslyn?’’_

_She gaped at him silently at that, her jaw dropping from surprise. He had never mentioned his wife in these conversations before, carefully avoided ever bringing her up. Before she could say anything, he locked his eyes with hers, blue on grey, and continued:_

_‘’I just wanted to save you and Sansa, to avenge our Father. They named me King in the North when I was not much more than just a kid, full of silly ideas about the world. And I fell in love, Arya, with a woman who was not my betrothed. Who would be the downfall of me and the whole Northern army on top of that. I didn’t care for it. In my madness, I dreamed of nothing else but marrying her.’’_

_Robb’s hands curled into fists. With the light of the candles illuminating his face, she could see first wrinkles forming in the corners of his mouth, on his forehead. He has always been more Tully in looks than Stark, but even with his red curls, something about his expression reminded her of Father in King’s Landing, perpetually worried about everything._

_Robb had been in love. Robb had been in love and_ no one had told her about it. _Nobody even mentioned it._

_‘’What was her name?’’ she asked softly._

_Her brother lowered his head with a deep sigh._

_‘’It does not matter now. I buried this love. Roslyn is a good woman and she gave me a beautiful daughter. I did my duty and I’m proud of it.’’_

_Somehow, she knew what he was about to say before he uttered the words. And still, they dropped heavily, like stones on her back._

_‘’The question is- do you know_ your _duty, Arya?’’_

_She closed her eyes; tears spilled freely now, hot against her cheeks._

_‘’It’s not fair.’’ She choked out, breathlessly. ‘’It’s not fair that you had to do it and it’s not fair that I have to, too.’’_

_‘’Nothing in this world is fair, sweet sister. But we must do what’s right regardless.’’ Robb’s arms locked around her, forcing her to bury her wet face in his silk doublet. He started to stroke her hair slowly, the way she sometimes saw him doing with baby Elain. ‘’It’s about time you came to terms with that.’’_

_*_

Arya drags him to the Godswood before the break of the dawn, when everyone in the castle is still deeply asleep. Their steps are soundless on the fresh snow and the air tastes sweet on his tongue, freezing his lung with each inhale.

Nymeria lays curled by the Weirwood tree. He’s somehow not surprised to see her there. After all, he is not the only one Arya will have to leave behind. The great direwolf raises her head when they approach her, nuzzling against her mistress's hand when Arya scratches her scalp.

It will be strange, seeing Nymeria without Arya. Almost as if seeing a soul without a body.

She drops down to her knees in front of him and for a moment, he forgets his own name.

‘’Arya-‘’

‘’Don’t you want to?’’ she just asks him, plain and simple, and before he knows, he’s kneeling too, his fingers laced with hers.

‘’I don’t know what to say.’’ He admits, just like she did the night before, and the corners of her lips raise slightly.

‘’It’s fine. I’ll show you.’’ She echoes his words back to him. Moisture gathers in the corners of her eyes and Gendry thinks that she has never looked sadder than now, crying on the snow before the Old Gods of her ancestors.

When he reaches towards her face to wipe her tears, she pulls back slightly.

‘’No.’’ Arya shakes her head. ‘’You don’t need to comfort me.’’

She clears her throat and says with practiced ease, as if she was repeating the words over and over in her head for thousands of times:

‘’ Arya of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?’’ 

Their eyes meet. For a moment, silence falls.

‘’If we do this – would it mean –‘’

‘’Nothing.’’ Her answer comes quickly and brutally, mercilessly tearing through whatever small hope was beginning to bloom in his heart. ‘’I will marry Elmar under the Light of the Seven and there’s no one here to witness us anyway. But I still want to do this. This is how it’s supposed to be.’’

‘’In the Godswood?’’ he asks, but she shakes her head.

‘’Me and you.’’

Falling snowflakes settle on her dark curls, making her look strangely ethereal. It’s still quite dark, with only a faint pink halo of the upcoming sunrise coloring the sky, but Arya’s close enough that he can see every eyelash, every freckle, even the faint love bite blooming underneath her jaw.

Her small hands feel very warm in his.

‘’Gendry of no house, heir to no castle. I come to claim her. ’’

Arya’s beams at him softly, tears freezing on her cheek

‘’Now you’re supposed to ask who gives me to you.’’

‘’It doesn’t seem very fair.’’ He notices and she chuckles. ‘’But fine. Who gives her?’’

Her fingers squeeze his tightly when she answers, voice choked up with emotion:

‘’She gives herself. I take this man.’’

And now he’s sure he has started crying also, but how does it matter anyway?

‘’I take this woman.’’

‘’I don’t think you confirming that is a part of standard vows.’’

‘’Fucking complicated.’’ He grumbles, blinking the tears away. His knees start to numb from the cold, hard ground, so he shifts a little closer to her, resting his forehead against hers when he whispers. ‘’What now?’’

‘’Now we beg the gods for blessings silently and that’s it. But I guess we don’t need to do that.’’ A tremble runs through her body when she tears her hands away from his and wraps them around his waist instead, burying her face in his chest.

‘’I was blessed already.’’ He says quietly, lips moving against the top of her head. ‘’To meet you. To love you. You saved my life, Arry.’’

All in him screams to beg her to run away with him; to just go to White Harbor and catch a ship to Free Cities, to forget about fucking betrothals and deals and titles. He would, if he thought he could convince her. He would beg in a heartbeat, no hesitation; gracelessly, shamelessly, pathetically. But Arya’s not stupid. If she wanted to do that, she would have already asked him.

Whether it’s the family or duty or honor, something does not let her leave and he cannot hate her for that, no matter how much he wants to.

Quietly, he grabs the hem of his cloak and wraps it around Arya’s back to shield her from the frosty wind.

‘’I am hers and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.’’

‘’I am his and he is mine, from this day until the end of my days.’’

They recite the vows in unison, solemnly. Gendry does not think he said a single truer thing in his entire life.

*

It’s almost like a game.

Not the innocent one for children, like come-into-my-castle, or of logic and strategies like cyvasse. No, the game they play is one of hares and foxes, stags and wolves, hunters and prey. Only Arya is not sure who hunts them – Robb and Mother and Rickon, or maybe the time itself.

There are too many people in Winterfell, too many pairs of eyes and ears. And even if some of them would surely keep to themselves the sight of their lips pressed together or the sound of their moans, there are also those who would run to tell on them faster than the wind. What would happen then? To be honest, Arya does not believe they would break the engagement – the Twins are far away, farther than gossip can travel. She would be probably locked in her room until their departure and she would never see Gendry again in this precious time they have left together. And Robb might just forget that he still owes Gendry for bringing her back to her family.

No one can know.

So, during the day, they steal small moments the way children in Flea Bottom steal scraps of meat and bones from the butcher. She comes apart with his hand on her lips, keeping her quiet even when she bites him in bone-crushing bliss. He grits his teeth and locks his jaw so hard that it hurts as she takes him into her mouth, both of them hidden deep in Winterfell’s belly, as the stone statues of Arya’s ancestors watch them unflinching.

They have the nights - the nights are theirs, ripe for taking. Dark nights, the ones when they talk until their throats are scraped raw. Red nights, when they don’t utter a single word – only moans, whimpers, grunts. But all the nights are too short just the same.

They never discuss it though.

He spills inside her every single time.

And they don’t talk about it either.

*

Of course, regardless of her wishes, she ends up trying the wedding gown on.

Roslyn arranges silk and ermine fur on her frame, carefully tugging on the ribbons to lace the back, while Mother walks in circles around Arya, looking for anything that needs to be adjusted.

‘’Oh, you look so beautiful!’’ her goodsister exclaims in awe, pressing her hands to her cheeks like an excited child. ‘’White’s good on you.’’

‘’I think the hem is a bit too long.’’ A frown appears on lady Catelyn’s face when she crooks her head a bit to glance at the dress from a different angle. ‘’Yes, definitely. Let me fetch Anna, she needs to hurry if we are to make it in time.’’

The second Mother leaves the room in the flurry of skirts, Roslyn drops her arms and looks down at her feet, making Arya turn towards her. Cherry smile slides down from Roslyn’s face like a mummer’s mask, leaving a strangely somber expression.

‘’Arya.’’ She asks her quietly, before she has a chance to say anything. ‘’I know you’re dreading this marriage. You don’t need to pretend – between both of us.’’

For a heartbeat or two, Arya does not know how to answer those words.

‘’What do you want me to say, Roslyn?’’ she lets out, at last, flopping down on the chair. The wedding gown pools around her feet on the floor, rich and pristine. The long, dragging sleeves are so heavy with sweetwater pearls that she can hardly raise her arms. She dreams of tearing it into rags. _I got married ruined, in Gendry’s clothes and with my hair messy. I don’t want any silks._

‘’Nothing. But I would like to tell you something, if you allow me.’’ Her goodsister pours herself some wine from the pincher and swallows it quickly; a little bit spills on her collar from the haste. ‘’Elmar is not a bad man, Arya. I promise you that.’’

 _‘’_ Even if he was, he would also have to be beyond stupid to ever hit me, if that’s what you’re trying to assure me off. ‘’ Arya huffs. ‘’He will be too afraid of Robb.’’

Married or not, she remains a Northern Princess. Elmar Fray is not going to leave her bruised and bloodied. It’s not what she fears.

Roslyn’s doe eyes shine as she shakes her head.

‘’No, I’m just- I just wanted you to know, that it’s possible to stay by his side as his wife, without ever loving him.’’ She all-but spits out, as if the words are burning the inside of her mouth. ‘’And you can be happy at the Twins if you allow yourself to be. Have your dreams of your blacksmith if you wish, if it makes it easier for you to bear Elmar children. But banish all hope, cause it will fester inside you until it kills you. ’’

Roslyn. Pretty, little Roslyn, her skin white as milk and the magnificent mane of hair reaching her hips. Roslyn, sold for the alliance she did not care for, married off to a stranger far away from her childhood home.

Roslyn… mentioning Gendry to her.

‘’How-‘’

‘’You forget that I was the one to dress you up in this gown.’’ Her brother’s wife laughs joylessly and takes another sip from her cup. ‘’Tell him not to squeeze you so tightly sister, you’re all bruised. And there is not enough time for those lovebites to fade before you leave, so try to hide them better. Although maybe it all would be for the naught anyway, for only a blind man would not notice how you two look at each other. ’’

There is loud buzzing in Arya’s ears; she swallows, but it still remains, insistent and distracting.

‘’Do you think that my mother knows?’

‘’I think she does not want to see.’’ Roslyn’s voice doesn’t sound like her voice at all. ‘’Robb might want to but he’s just too busy now to pay any attention to his own household. And Rick simply doesn’t care.’’

_It’s possible to stay by his side as his wife, without ever loving him._

They are quiet for a second, both deep in their thoughts when Arya asks:

‘’How did you manage this? So many times I was sure that I made my peace with it, and every time it turned out to be just another lie to help me sleep at night. How did you-’’

She tries to find a suitable word in her head, but before she can come up with anything, Roslyn laughs again.

It’s ugly laughter, bitter and devoid of any pretense.

‘’How did I build love with Robb? Oh, I’m sure your mother told you this story, how she and your father also did not know each other before they were married. She told me this on my wedding night. She only neglected to mention that they were an exception, not a rule.’’

Roslyn laces her fingers on the curve of her belly and glances at the door before continuing.

‘’Robb is a good man, I cannot deny it. And he was already magnificent when I was marring him; the great King in The North, military genius. Honorable, noble, a maiden’s daydream.’’ She takes a deep breath. ‘’I was naïve back then, but not delusional. Not with who my father is. I’ve never been as lucky as you Arya, to be given the freedom to do my own thing. Since I was a lass, everyone made sure to always remind me what was expected of me.’’

Arya’s quite sure she has never heard her goodsister speak so many words at once, nor she has ever seen her so cold and detached. She always thought that at least this part of the deal turned out to be truly good for the North – for it gained a Queen, every inch a lady and lovely as the dawn. And Roslyn always seemed content enough, playing with the children in the glass gardens and managing the castle.

But maybe it’s just part of the story. She briefly wonders why she never bothered to see the rest of it.

‘’Still. I wanted to believe lady Catelyn… But he loved that little Westerling girl when he was making his vows to me. Murmured her name in his sleep, while laying next to me. _Jeyne. Jeyne._ I think that maybe he still loves her, even after all this time, the way people love songs and fantasies. You want to know how I grew to love Robb?’’ Roslyn bites on her lip and chuckles softly, her fingers tracing circles on her belly. ‘’I didn’t.’’

*

_Winter north of the Neck was brutal, relentless. It beat one down and kept on kicking until it kicked all the strength out of their body. It nipped at the ankles, pulled on the hair, spit on the faces. Fished out the weak and the sick and the young out of the crowd of the warm bodies with terrifying accuracy._

_It was cold and hungry, and desperate._

_Gendry fucking_ hated _winter._

_But, being completely honest, he also thought it was kinda beautiful._

_He had never seen snow in King’s Landing, hadn’t even imagined how the world could look like washed down to one color only. White, white and white; white sky, white fields, white trees. White rivers and white clouds -_

_And Arya, a flash of brown atop her mare, riding next to him through the woods and criticizing his position._

_‘’… honestly, you will soon hit some branch with your stupid head and fall off the horse. Gendry, you’re listening to me?’’_

_‘’Yeah.’’ He answered softly, pulling on the reigns to swerve around a fallen tree log. ‘’I am, Arry.’’_

_She smiled at her old moniker and he found himself captivated by the delicate blush coloring her cheeks._ Like a rose petal on the snow, _crossed his mind briefly. It made him sick a little, this thought; but he had been feeling more and more sick around Arya lately anyway._

_Arya, one and five now. Still small and light on her feet as a deer escaping the hunt. Still just as bright and resourceful as on the King’s Road._

_But one and five now._

_Long-haired. Long-legged. Grey-eyed._

_Blushing in the forest, the only real, alive thing in the sea of white. Fire in the winter._

_‘’You have this stupid look on your face again.’’ she shot, but not meeting his eyes; she stared straight ahead, her cheeks still pink. ‘’Someone is gonna slap you one day, if you keep on looking so stupid.’’_

_‘’You use this word a lot, m’lady high.’’ He snorted. His horse picked up the pace a little and Gendry pulled on the reigns to slow it down. He wanted to ride alongside Arya, just like that. At the same pace, so she could still make fun of him and he could still look at the snow that fell from the branches and landed on her brown hair, sparkling in the cold light._

_‘’Don’t call me like that. Well, you force me to.’’ Arya turned her head a bit towards him; she was smiling and it made him smile too, involuntarily. ‘’For someone so smart, you are exceptionally stupid.’’_

_‘’It does not make any sense.’’_

_‘’It does!’’_

_Three hares, thin as they can be, hanged by Gendry’s saddle. Two more and a ferret – by Arya’s. But even as his stomach turned and twisted, in all honesty, Gendry didn’t really care for the game. And he was quite sure Arya did not care too._

_Not, when they were bickering under the white sky, the way they once had done under the blue one._

*

She’s seated on the place of honor, by the King’s right side. As far away from his table as possible, but it doesn’t matter. He can see her perfectly from his spot; her dark locks tucked neatly under the golden hairnet, and how she drinks more than usual, way too much.

He barely touches his food, even though there’s a fresh game and vegetable stew that smells heavenly. Instead, Gendry watches as Arya’s cheeks turn darker with every cup of wine. Deep cherry circles bloom on both sides of her face and her hand trembles a bit when she raises the goblet to her mouth.

 _Why won’t someone take it away from her?_ He thinks angrily, eyeing the King and lady Catelyn, both of them engrossed in a conversation with matching frown on their faces. _You fucking cowards. I hope you cannot sleep at night._

He cannot; even after Arya kisses him goodnight and flees to her chambers, he’s tossing and turning on his bed until morning light, breathing in the smell she leaves behind. Sex and horses. Frost and soap. Steel and leather. Pine needles and wolf pelts.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend she’s still in the bed with him, curled on her left side. He can paint her in his mind perfectly - every freckle, every mole, every wrinkle.

And it’s not enough now, the dreams are not sufficient anymore. Not after he got the taste and the bite of the real thing.

Suddenly, lady Catelyn stands up and all the voices in the hall die down. Even in her mature age, Arya’s mother radiates grace, Gendry has to give it to her. Tall and red-haired, she commands the room as easily as if she was just born to order people around.

(‘’ _I guess Sansa is the same now. ‘’ Arya told him a year back, after the raven with the news of Sansa’s new babe’s birth reached Winterfell. ’’Same as our Mother. I’m the only odd one in the bunch.’’_

_She was laughing as she was saying those words, but it was ugly, bitter laughter._

_And he wanted to tell her that there was nothing wrong with that, nothing wrong with_ her. _He wanted to tell her that she was perfect and beautiful, and that he would follow her to the ends of Earth, and a great deal of other dangerous, forbidden things._

_But he just shook his head and went back to hammering, cause she was still m’lady high betrothed to fucking lord Elmar fucking Frey and he was still just a bastard baseborn blacksmith, and there was nothing any of them could do about it)_

‘’Tonight, we celebrate her six and tenth nameday and say goodbye to my daughter, princess Arya, as she’s about to truly become a woman grown.’’ Lady Catelyn says and Gendry stares down at his stew, not blinking even when his eyes start to water. ‘’Tonight, we celebrate the with our hearts heavy with sadness but full of hope for her impending happiness. Let the dancing begin!’’

She claps her hands and the minstrels tug on their strings in unison, making people exclaim in enthusiasm and bang their fists on the table. The song is a fast-paced, passionate one; the lyrics tell a story of some long-forgotten Northern Princess who was stolen from her betrothed by a Wildling, and of how the lord gathered banners and marched beyond the Wall to get her back.

Very-fucking-romantic.

The stew and the meat turn in his stomach and he suddenly thinks he’s gonna be sick if he stays in this hall a second longer, with those people celebrating …. Celebrating…..

‘’Gendry?’’

A hand appears on his shoulder, small and warm.

A voice rings in his ears, the one that he heard in the darkness so many times and still not enough.

Arya is standing next to him, biting on her lip with her cheeks still cherry. From so close he fully takes in the finery of her gown – it’s scarlet, a color he has never seen on her before, but which strangely compliments the cool tones of her skin and eyes. Her hairnet is gone, a long braid falling down her back freely.

Nymeria sits by her mistress's legs, eyeing him with her golden irises solemnly.

‘’Would you do me an honor of dancing with me?’’ his lady asks, loud and clear, unflinching even when people at his table gasp and gawk.

The floor is already full of spinning couples; laughing, drunk people twirling and spilling ale everywhere, singing along the familiar lyrics

‘’ Plenty of girls in the Kingdoms, but the best ones north of Neck are!’’

Wordlessly, Gendry stands up and takes Arya’s hand.

He’s so much taller than her, almost too tall to comfortably dance. But he puts his other hand on her waist anyway and she steps closer, and yeah, they fit.

They just fit.

Fine, thick velvet underneath one of his palms. Skin roughened by the knife, bowstring and reigns underneath another. Her beautiful, sad eyes locked with his.

‘’That’s where my heart shall remain now, by my lovely little lass’ side!’’

His _wife._

He leads her to the floor and the crowd swallows them whole.

*

It feels like flying must feel like. It feels like galloping through the open plains. It feels like running in Nymeria’s body through the woods.

For such a huge man, Gendry moves with a strange grace – the grace of someone used to maneuvering in spaces far too small for him. He knows the steps too, which surprises her a bit as she has never seen him dancing until now. But they hop and twist in unison, kick their legs and clap their hands, picking up the pace when the song does so too.

Briefly, she wonders if her mother can see them among other couples. She hopes she can. She hopes that her eyes follow them, taking notice of how they touch each other with a trained familiarity.

She hopes Robb is seeing them too.

‘’Hey, hey, good men gathered!’’ people roar and Gendry picks her up the way other men around them do. She braces both hands on his shoulders and smiles down at him as he turns around, making her heavy skirts swish.

‘’Drink some wine and ride into the battle!’’

He sets her down on her feet to twirl her under his left arm, then under the right one. Musicians start to bang on the drums to imitate the sound of horse hooves; the song nears its climax. Their fingers lace as they start to spin, faster and faster and the world around them turns into a blur of color and movement. She feels dizzy, breathless from all the wine, but she holds onto Gendry’s hands as tightly as she can.

‘’Hey, hey, good many gathered!’’

Someone collapses to the floor on her right side, but they are still spinning – their feet slipping on spilled ale and their eyes locked.

Round and round they go, with the drums banging, with people singing, with Gendry’s stare making her more lightheaded than any wine ever could.

‘’For I’ll never love another!’’

Her braid whips around from the momentum, flying over her shoulder and wraps around Gendry’s neck when he pulls her into his arms.

They stop moving.

Gendry holds her to his chest, staring down at her as breath escapes from his lungs in short, shallow gasps. They’re so close that it would require close to nothing to kiss. She’s holding onto his shoulders, her fingers digging into muscles as she struggles to keep her balance when Gendry feels like the only still and steady thing in the entire world.

‘’For I’ll never love another.’’ He hums softly, quietly. His hands slowly slide from her waist, up to her arms and neck, until he cups her jaw and angles her face up. His lips drop on her sweaty forehead.

It’s easy to slip away from the feasts, in-between drunken, joyous Northerners. So easy.

Arya doesn’t care to steal a glance at the head table.

*

She bars the door before sitting on the cot next to him. Before she can even open her mouth, he silences her with his finger on her mouth.

‘’Happy name-day.’’ His voice is quiet and soft, like kitten’s steps on the stone.

He places something on her lap; a little bundle of yellow linen, carefully wrapped around some object roughly of the length of her hand.

When she brushes the material aside, silver steel glistens, making her breath catch.

‘’Small enough for you to hide it in your boot.’’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘’Or sleeve, or under the pillow. There are –‘’

‘’Wolves.’’ She whispers, tracing running silhouettes decorating the blade. ‘’And a bull.’’

There is one, right on the pommel. Bull’s head. It’s small enough that she won’t have any problems using the dagger, but, when she brushes the tip of her finger against its horns, a tiny pearl of blood appears.

Pointy on both ends.

She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. 

She can feel his fingers dancing on her collarbones, climbing up her neck and tracing her jawline; she stays still and lets him have his fill of her. He tucks a strand of her behind her ear, tenderly brushing its shell before swiping his thumb across her collarbone.

‘’Arya.’’ He whispers. ‘’My love, look at me.’’

It should bother her, all of his _my love, my sweet, my lady._ But somehow, they don’t. They just make her a little sadder, a little colder, a little more desperate. 

In the dim half-light, he looks like a different person altogether. A stranger.

But his hands feel familiar to her, like the songs her mother used to sing her, like the wind howling in the Wolfswood, like the taste of copper on her tongue after the kill.

And his lips are familiar; their shape and their softness, how they mold against her easily.

All of this, all of him, she knows, she has learned and memorized, burnt in her memory with a hot iron.

He’ll keep her warm in the Riverlands. He’ll keep her wild in silks. He’ll keep her _his_ when another man will force himself inside her and call her his lady wife. Even all the way from Winterfell or wherever he will make his stay.

For no matter what will happen from now one, Arya is Gendry’s first, before she is anyone else’s.

She kisses him one more time and places both hands flat on his chest to push him away gently.

‘’It’s a complicated dress.’’ She sighs, turning around to show him her back. ‘’Would you help me with the laces?’’

He complies wordlessly, his fingers skillfully dealing with laces first and then with her braid; he brushes her hair aside to peck her exposed shoulder blades and the bumps of her spine as he peels the material off her.

‘’Why red?’’ he murmurs against her neck and she just shrugs in response. She doesn’t know why, truly. It was just one of the gowns that Bethany laid on the bed for her; she picked it without even taking notice of the shade.

‘’Do you like it?’’ she asks in return.

‘’I’ll like it a great deal more on the floor.’’ His hands find her bare waist and he pulls her to her feet in front of him, in-between his legs; like that, she’s just a few inches taller than him. Gendry turns her around to face him so that she could watch as he undresses her.

He takes his sweet time with it; the candle they lit bleeds fat beads of wax when she’s finally bare. Wine has long evaporated from her head and she finds herself ridiculously alert. The feast is probably still in full swing, but she suspects her Mother is already looking for her.

Unless Roslyn distracted her with the kids, Arya highly doubts that lady Stark will calmly go to her chambers and retire for the night after the spectacle her daughter pulled off; leaving her place at the table to dance with a blacksmith and then slip away with him to do gods-know-what. And of course, her brother must’ve noticed too.

Gods, she’s so tired. Tired of hiding, of pretending, of saying goodbye. She’s been saying goodbye to her home ever since she came back to it again, has been saying goodbye to Gendry even since she realized she’s falling for him. She feels like a thousand years old crone, ready to go outside and let the winter winds take her with them.

‘’My mother, Robb, they’ll –‘’

‘’Don’t care.’’ Gendry cups her breasts, running his thumbs across them gently until her nipples harden. ‘’Let them come, if they wish.’’

She stares at him, stunned. That’s shockingly bold for Gendry; except, maybe, it’s not boldness at all, but anger. He’s playing with the strands of her hair now and twists them around his fingers. If she didn’t know him so well, she would never notice that he’s avoiding her eyes.

Arya takes his face in her hands, molds her palms against his cheeks.

‘’I would never let them hurt you. Even if they wanted to, even if they decided it would not be violating guests' rights. You know that, right?’’ her voice breaks a bit and she really didn’t want to cry, but she somehow senses it’s gonna be a lost fight. ‘’I’m sorry.’’

‘’Stop apologizing to me.’’

He grabs her wrists harshly, pulling her hands away from his face and finally looking up at her.

Robb told her – told both of them, actually – how he suspected the reason why Father had met with Gendry was because Gendry is Robert Baratheon’s bastard. And Arya did not really believe it as the King she knew was nothing like Gendry – he was old and fat, always drunk and foul-smelling under perfumed sashes. But she also grew up hearing about the Demon of Trident and gods damn her, if it’s not how Gendry’s looking right now.

Brow furrowed, jaw clenched. Fire in his eyes.

_Rheagar took Lyanna from him and the whole kingdom burned for it._

‘’Stop apologizing to me for something you did not decide for herself.’’ He all but spits. ‘’And stop treating me as if I was stupid. I knew what I was getting into, Arya. I knew it back on the King’s Road.’’

Her breath catches when he pulls her on his lap. His hands let go off her wrists to grab her arse, but it doesn’t turn her on – not with his voice ringing in her ears.

‘’I knew it when I was returning you to your family. You tried to convince me that we could stay together and maybe I even fooled myself into believing you for some time, but-‘’

Angry tears stream down his face as he speaks. He drops his head and nuzzles against the hollow of her throat to hide them, but she can still feel them; hot and wet on her skin.

‘’But I always knew you could never be my family, Arya.’’

She thinks about all the places where they could go to. Braavos and Volantis, Pentos and even Dorne, because who would look for them in Dorne? They could go beyond the Wall, find Jon. They could just take horses and leave. Two-thirds of the guards in Winterfell were heavily in their cups, the remaining ones already passed out – no one would start chasing them until late in the morning. She could be a blacksmith's wife, bear Gendry children and teach them how to love each other and protect each other like a pack should.

Their babies would be black of hair, blue of eye. Stubborn and wonderful, and well-loved. Her sons would be tall and strong, and her daughters would know more freedom than she herself was ever given.

They could run away.

But they won’t.

_Family, duty, honor; family before duty and duty before honor, but who’s my family now?_

_I promised before Old Gods and it was my promise, my own – why should it count less than some piece of paper arranged by my mother, signed by my brother?_

Her head’s swimming.

_Oh gods, what have I done?_

Robb’s face flashes in front of her eyes, his blue eyes and the heartbreak in his voice when he was telling her about his lover.

_Do you know your duty, Arya? Your duty, your duty, your duty –_

_Robb for Roslyn, Sansa for Willas, Bran at the court, all of us sold for peace. Robb for Roslyn, Sansa for Willas, what right do I have to have my happy ending when they didn’t?_

With a desperate sob, she wraps her arms around Gendry, resting her forehead against the crown of his head.

‘’I don’t want to leave you.’’ She cries. ‘’I don’t want to go, I love you, I want to be with you, only you.‘’

She doesn’t know why she’s telling him all those things. He already knows them.

‘’I can’t run away, I can’t do this to them. I cannot let them down, I’m-‘’

He swallows her words in his mouth, steals them from her lips with a kiss. He tastes like ale and salt, and against his insistent tongue, she can do nothing but bury her fingers in his hair, pressing him as close to her as possible. 

‘’I know, Arya.’’

He kisses the tears off her cheeks.

‘’I know, I know it all.’’

He squeezes the breath out of her lungs; his desperation matching hers in intensity when he lays down on the bed and rolls them around, crushing her underneath his weight. 

His beard scratches her skin when he drags his face down her body. But the kiss he presses above her navel is delicate. Featherlike.

‘’I know.’’ he repeats one more final time against her belly and she bites on her lip hard enough to draw blood.

‘’What are you going to do?’’ she asks him, voice breaking like waves crashing over the shore.

He nuzzles against her skin.

‘’I will stay here, Arya, smith for your family. You made it my home and I have nowhere else to go.’’

There’s an insistent itch underneath her skin, driving her insane. And maybe there is really nothing more left to say, cause, when he raises his head to look her in the eyes, she finds herself at loss of words.

So, she simply reaches towards his shirt, tugging it off him.

Then, she undoes his pants.

And when she guides him in her, both of them remain silent.

Push and pull, push and pull, they sway quietly with their eyes locked. Arya has never believed all this horseshit about how laying with man supposedly makes a woman less worthy, takes something away from her – but maybe there’s some truth in that after all, cause she spends herself on the mattress this night. She gives and gives and gives, lets him freely take whatever he desires. Clings to him, when he bites on her neck and pushes inside her painfully. Caresses his cheeks. Wraps her legs around his waist to keep him close whenever she feels he wants to withdraw a little.

She doesn’t dare to close her eyes, doesn’t dare to stop holding him. Tries desperately to keep her breathing even and her hips still because maybe if she doesn’t peak, he won’t either, and they’ll stay like this forever – in this room, on this bed. Maybe all will forget about them and they’ll grow old together. Maybe she’ll never have to say goodbye.

But she does peak, silently, with her eyelashes fluttering and mouth opened. Gendry kisses her brow as she’s panting and grabs her hips forcefully to thrust into her harder a few seconds before he also follows, grunting softly under his breath. 

When he withdraws for her and wetness gushes down her thighs, she feels empty. Only once in life, she has experienced an emptiness like that – when she slipped into Nymeria’s mind after her direwolf had birthed her pups and was licking them clean. However, Nymeria’s babies stayed by her side, suckling milk and making this terrible, gaping hole within her body less and less painful, until it disappeared entirely.

Arya’s not a wolf. She’s a woman, a highborn lady, but buries her face in Gendry’s neck and stays the night with him all the same. Hoping, against all reason that it will somehow ease the pain, even though she knows full well it won’t.

*

In the frosty morning light, his eyes seem so impossibly bright that she cannot look away, cannot stop looking; she takes a step back and crosses the threshold, still facing him.

She’s staring at him staring at her, and something deep down inside her bleeds and aches. She didn’t think it possible for Gendry to be as open as he is right now; all guards down, all this storm of emotions inside him on full display.

Slowly, so slowly, he raises his arms and cups her face. His thumbs swipe across her cheekbones delicately, once, twice. The tips of their noses brush and Arya’s eyelids drop instantly as his lips touch hers.

It’s the sweetest of kisses, the softest. She ends up putting her hands on his waist, curling her fingers into the rough material of his shirt, as he slowly, patiently, coaxes heartbreak out of her with his mouth.

It’s the kiss that says _please don’t go._

And when it ends, he rests his forehead on hers and they stay still for a moment, both of them lightheaded and on the verge of tears.

She still wants to say so much to him; still yearns to apologize, to explain, to beg for forgiveness. But, as she basks in his presence for the last time, she quietly realizes that maybe she doesn’t have to. Maybe, in the end, the only words she could possibly utter are _I love you._ And he knows that. At least, at least she made sure of this one thing.

So, when his hands drop to his sides, she closes her eyes and spins around, walking away from him quickly before she crumbles to his feet.

And he lets her.

*

Nymeria’s howling in the woods for hours as their carriage is wobbling South.

Mother is riding with her, seated on the cushioned seat opposite to Arya and busing herself with some little blanket silently, which is fine for her. She doesn’t care much for conversations right now, truth to be told. She’s still replaying in her mind the sight of Winterfell’s gate disappearing in the distance, Robb’s solemn eyes, Rickon’s embrace, Beth’s tears. And there’s also this stinging ache between her legs that doesn’t ease, doesn’t fade with the sunlight as the day passes.

However, eventually, the bubble bursts.

‘’Did you say your goodbyes?’’ her mother asks suddenly and there is something so insistent and deliberate about this question that, for a moment, Arya freezes like a startled doe.

Surely, it’s impossible that she implies…?

She whips her head up to look at Mother, but her face is blank, unreadable. She’s staring at the passing landscape through the window with her hands laced on her lap and straight back.

‘’I did.’’ Arya answers cautiously, lowering her head to her own legs and her belly hidden under the thick fur she’s bundled in.

Briefly, she thanks the gods for how shaky the carriage is and how poor is the road; Mother will never suspect anything, when she starts to get sick. And she’s about to get sick real soon.

Suddenly, a thought sprouts delicate roots in the matter of her brain. Dark, ugly though; she should reach out and rip it out, root and stem.

Instead, Arya waters it.

‘’Mother?’’ she asks.

‘’Yes, sweetling?’’

‘’What would happen with me if Elmar died?’’

She keeps her heartbeat steady, voice even. Hides her trembling hands under the material of her cape so that Catelyn would not see them.

‘’Oh.’’ Her mother sets down the embroidery hoop on her lap. Her eyebrows raise in perfect arches. ‘’Well, I suppose, since our agreement was about Elmar specifically, you would return to Winterfell if widowed and we would find you another match. Any particular reason why you’re asking? I assure you, he is a rather healthy man, from what I heard.’’

‘’No reason at all.’’

Gendry’s knife is a comforting weight, strapped to her thigh.

‘’Just wanted to know.’’

*

There will be no pretty songs for them; no other than the song of howling wolves and hammered steel, of mud and fear, and longing.

No other song but the one that all secret lovers know.

Hushed moans and desperate lips, and the love that burns like embers in the middle of the winter. 

She will sing this song in the Riverlands as long as her lord husband shall live. And then she’ll return home and, if gods allow, they’ll sing it together once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know that probably a lot of you are dissatisfied with how this story ended. I can understand that and I respect your feelings. But if you go and disrespect me and my choices regarding my own story in the comments, I will just simply delete it. Fair warning. 
> 
> However, as long as you remain civil, I would truly appreciate getting to know your thoughts and opinions. If you enjoyed this fic and/ or have some deeper feelings about any particular aspect of it - I hope you can spare a few minutes to tell me about it ;) Thank you for reading my story!


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